


The Epidemic

by tori_trevor



Series: The Epidemic [1]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tori_trevor/pseuds/tori_trevor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Joan Watson has too much on her plate and too little time. She only keeps track of major events though the newspaper if she time to read it, or her friends, if she has time to hear them. The only ones she cares most about are medical ones. The new flu strain, for instance.<br/>It’s not very interesting, she thinks. They practically make a strain every year. So why is the C.D.C.’s golden boy in her colleague’s office, where she’s finishing up her paperwork? It’s just the flu, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

       She sighed tiredly, stretching slowly in her hard-backed chair. Her shoulders ache, she catalogues, as she tries to move as much as she can in the limited space she has, and her back is entirely sore from being in the same position for the past few hours. She had been doing paperwork ever since they had closed for patients, wanting to avoid the pile on Monday. However, she had been working for almost fourteen hours straight and was more than ready to call an end to the day. She wants to go home, order take out, sip some wine, and just relax. At least, she thinks, she had the sense to change into her flats during the ten-minute lunch break she managed to catch, so her feet weren’t so much hurting as they were tired.  
        It had been a tough day, what with some epidemic scare. It was nothing out of the ordinary, another variation of the flu, something the media hyped up, but it meant more patients, meant she would have to keep her small practice open longer, meant more days like this in the future.  
She hated flu season.  
        Sighing, she reached under her desk for her heels. She could complete the rest of the papers while she finished off the last of the red wine in the fridge. She swapped her shoes, grinning at the possibility of being home, of being comfortable …  
And then she looked up. Her gaze crashed with a pair of stormy grey eyes. Ones she hadn’t seen in almost six years. Ones who last watched her break down during graduation day. And suddenly, all the fatigue she had felt moments before evaporated, like her chances of going home. Because if the great Sherlock Holmes, poster boy for the CDC, was in her tiny closet of an office at nearing midnight on a Friday night, something was wrong. Very wrong.

  
“Joanie, fancy meeting you here, in such a … lovely place.”  
“Holmes. What brings you here?”  
“I was in the neighborhood.”  
“Liar. You’re a long way from Washington. I repeat, what brings you here?”  
“You may have heard about the latest disease scare.”  
“Yes, what of it?”  
“The C.D.C. is going to declare it as a, national and possible worldwide, pandemic in a few hours, as soon as when we get confirmation from some official in Mexico. After that, it’s only a matter of time for the President to quarantine every major city.”  
“Why are you telling me this, Holmes? If you couldn’t tell, we’re in New York, not Mexico.”  
“I … I came for you.”  
“What?”  
“The … virus, it’s spreading so quickly. We didn’t know. I flew in from D.C. as soon as I could get clearance. It’s spreading across the border. Joanie, please, we have to go.”

  
       He reached for her, hand trembling, outstretched. This was not the boy she had met, the boy she had broken down in front of, all those years ago, hiding from her parents. Whose eyes she had fallen in love with, the boy who was always there for her, bringing her a coffee and a pastry during her study marathons, who was mean to everyone but her. Freak, she heard, but never repeated. Idiot, she grinned, as he fell asleep in the library cubicle next to hers, waiting for her to finish for the day.  
No, this was the man who held her life in his hands.

  
“I might be infected?”  
“As far as we’re aware, it’s not airborne, not yet. Please, we have to leave.” He pleaded, pulling her up from her desk, yanking her coat and bag from the coat rack, throwing open the door and shoving her out to the hall.  
“Holmes, I swear to God, what the hell is going on? I’m not infected. You said so yourself. Leave me alone.” She demanded, snatching back her arm from his vise-like grip.  
“We have to hurry, Joanie.”  
“Stop calling me that! No one calls me that anymore! Tell me what’s going on or I swear I’ll go back into my office and stay there.”  
“There isn’t time!”  
“Then I guess this is good bye.”  
“Damn it, Joanie. Damn your stubbornness.” He mutters, raking a hand over his face.  
“I’m less stubborn than you.”  
“I’m not the liar now. Joanie, please. I’ll explain on our way to your apartment. You’ll need to pack a bag or two. But we have to leave now.”

* * *

 

     She had tears in her eyes, her hands shook as she tried to lower the blinds of the plane window, tried to close out the sun rising over her favorite city, Sherlock Holmes at her side, sleeping fitfully. Good, she thought with malice. He deserves it, deserves to never again sleep peacefully.  
Two hours ago, she was tired, but content. Now, she was stuck in a private plane heading to some undisclosed location. At least she wasn’t alone, she noted with a sort of delight and yet, misery as well. How many others had been taken, stolen away from their beds, from their families? Was she the only one by herself?  
She thought back to the way they had passed through all the security check-points, Sherlock flashing his laminated badge, a few of her bags in one of his arms, another wound tightly around her. He gripped her as if she were the last thing on earth. He refused to let her go, told the heavily armed men she was with him, even openly bribed an officer, who then offered to take their bags to the cargo area, and then pushed them past the shouting mass of people.  
Joan crushed her eyes shut, trying to forget the mayhem in the huge airport, the way all the people were crowding around, begging to be allowed in with the other scientists, the other officials, the families begging to not be separated. Some were tourists, being told baldly that all planes were being forcefully grounded, even as it was clear through the tall windows, that they were not, in fact, grounded. Even as people with money and power walked past them, confident they were going to leave New York. Thank god, her parents were on business for the Chinese Consulate, hopefully safe. Her brother was in D.C. and she had asked Sherlock about it, on the way to her place.

  
“Is D.C. safe?”  
“Why?”  
“My brother and his fiancée live there.”  
“It’s guarded.”  
“But is it safe?”  
“The last time someone mentioned it, it hadn’t been ravaged by the virus yet.”  
“When was that?” She asked, pulling out her phone. He snatched it from her hands.  
“The phone lines are down, or either too busy. I was briefed before I came here. I booked us seats. We need you. I am the liaison to the English Consulate since my father is not here yet, an English citizen with connections to the British Government due to my annoying older sister and I’m a veritable power with the C.D.C. You, Joanie, are one of our many new medical staff members, with ties to the Chinese Consulate.”  
“But—”  
“We’re just being very cautious. I’ll help you pack. Please keep the meter running.” He begged the cabbie, rushing to open her door.  
“But why are you telling me all of this? Why are you here?”  
“Your family connections and your brilliant mind. I remember that from med school.” She turned toward him, balancing herself precariously on the thin steps, key in hand.  
“That was years ago.” He motioned to her door.  
“A mind like mine does not forget,” he states, barrelling inside, asking her where her suitcases were.  
“No, I guess not.”

He picked out her clothes, asking her to take anything expensive, take any mementos, any family heirlooms.  
“They’ll loot the places for food and other valuables.” She had nodded, pulling out her wine. Now or never, she thought, as she took a long drink from it.  
“What?” She had asked, face warm from his intense gaze. He shook his head, told her she needed some cardboard boxes.  
“We can have these sent to you, where we’re going. It’s all too much for a small plane.”  
“Where are we going, again?”  
“Someplace safe, someplace where you won’t need so many shoes, Joanie.”  
“Fine,” she had mumbled, trying to pick the newest and the most adaptable.  
She watched as he threw bag after bag in the trunk of the cab, asked her to grab her overnight bag and fill it with some food, a change of clothes, and her toiletries.  
“And hurry, please.” This was wrong, she thought, as she took one last look at her bare apartment, noting sadly, that it hadn’t changed much in the past years. And now, it might never.

* * *

 

“We’re landing,” he remarked sleepily, the heel of his hand digging into his eyes.  
“How long?”  
“What?”  
“How long since you’ve slept?”  
“A few days ago, if it matters to you. I’m fine.”  
“It does, since you’re the only reason I’m here.”  
“About that, let me field any questions, and don’t contradict me.”  
“All right.”  
“Do you trust me?”  
She paused. The last time they had parted, it wasn’t as friends. “Yes. I trust you.”


	2. Going Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, it's safe underground.  
> But since when is safe something important to Sherlock Holmes, when there's a mystery to solve?

 

It had been a week, a tiring and hectic week, yes, she admitted as she dried her hands in the small sink of her little clinic. It didn’t quite excuse his behavior, though. She hadn’t seen Holmes since they arrived. When she had asked about him to her partner in the clinic, during a routine supplies inventory, she received a splutter of laughter and nothing of use. The man had apologized afterward, giving her an once-over.

“Sorry, but you don’t look like one of his usual conquests.”

“I’m not—”

“Why are you so interested in him, then?”

“I’m just curious, Liam.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Luckily, I am not a cat. We need more gauze.”

“I’ll put in a request.”

“Is it getting better, do you know?”

“What?”

“We’ve been getting more and more patients. It’s all odd things and we’re the surgery ward. Aren’t there more doctors? We’re not equipped for this.” She paused, telling him they were going to need more aspirin.

“We have to keep doing inventory every two days. They’re all different colors, haven’t you noticed?”

“I haven’t. I’m too busy dealing with them.”

“We need more bandages. Well, it doesn’t take more than five seconds. We fill out their paperwork, too. It had to be obvious.”

“It wasn’t to me.” She shrugs.

“And we’re done. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I most certainly will, my fair Joan.”

“No, don’t say that, you silly boy. You’re like twelve.” He laughs, leaving the tiny supply closet.

 

             Walking to her room, she tries not to think of him. He did have quite a reputation in college, so he had told her. The rest of it followed him, in whispered taunts and yelled insults. She had tried to fend off the most of them, ignoring the way he always told her never to bother. She had smacked him, when he said.

             Card in hand, she swipes to her room, a light snoring emanating from her room. She freezes, confused, walking back outside to the brightly light hallway, checking her room’s number and walking back inside.

 

“Holmes.” He grunts, face buried in a pillow.

            She rolls her eyes, thinking of how she dealt with this before, and like before, she couldn’t quite tell how he got inside. She sat on the chair near her desk, and took off her shoes, watching him.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He lifts his head enough for an eye to glare at her. “Leave me alone.”

“Have you at least eaten today?”

“You’re worse than my mother,” he mumbles, still in her bed.

“At least take off your shoes.”

“Go away.”

“It’s my room, idiot.”

“Good god, woman. I’m tired.”

“So am I. And since this is my room, move. I’ll fix the bed.”

             He scoffs, but gets up from her bed, swaying slightly, heavy with sleep. She pulls down the cover, patting a place for him. If anything, she knows he only looks for her when he’s forced to go to bed, and when he’s too tired to remember where his own quarters are. As he sinks like a stone, she fixes the cover around him, a scathing remark on her lips. He looks tired, more so than he had before.

 

“I can hear you worrying. Kindly shut up, Joanie.”

An amused sorry rings out from her, as she turns to turn off the light in the bedside table.

 

* * *

 

            She wakes up in the warm embrace of someone, and for a few seconds, everything is forgotten and she thinks she’s gone out for drinks with Ty, and brought someone home. But then her bedfellow stirs, quickly releasing her, muttering an apology, and stumbling out of bed. She tries to bring him back, remembering he’s been awake for so long and she just wants to sleep a for a bit longer. And she refuses to listen to his teasing, since he’s the one with a red face, and turns away from him.

 

            Hours later, she doesn’t wake up with an arm clutching her waist, a nose digging into her shoulder, a warm mouth mumbling in Latin in his sleep, not like she had before. She does, however, find him on the bed, as if he had fell face first again. She groans, turning toward him.

 

“What’s wrong?”

“The people upstairs, they’re worse off, I saw it.”

“But—how did you manage going out? Did you take a guard with you?”

“I slipped out the back, no one saw.”

“Is that where you’ve been all week?”

“Yes.”

“Idiot. You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Come with me, then.”

“I have clinic duty.”

“Can you steal some supplies? I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“We? Who says I’ll go?”

“I do. Can you have supplies at hand by tomorrow? I’ll bring food. We might be a while, so you might pack a change of clothes.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then it shall be a great loss for you, but I do need them, and if I shan’t get them by you, I will be forced to seduce one of the nurses.”

“Don’t. I’ll have them ready after my shift.”

“Excellent!”

“Are you going to lunch?” He shakes his head, moving to lie down.

“I’ll be waiting here.”

“Should I bring you something or are you doing another hunger strike?”

“You’re worse than my mum, Joanie.”

“Someone has to be, Sher.”

 

 

Liam smirks, as he says good bye to a patient. “You’re late.”

“I overslept.” She replies, scribbling her signature onto her unending stack of paperwork.

“Really? I heard it was because Sherlock Holmes was in your room.”

“So?”

“Mister Womanizer himself in your room? After you mentioned him?” He continues.

“It was a coincidence.”

“So it seems.”

“What the hell, Liam?”

“Is he the reason you’re late? Don’t worry, I covered for you. Lisa was distracted anyway.”

“Is her brother Phil still sick?”

“Yeah. There’s rumors he’s … sick, sick.”

“But why send him to the Red section? We deal with colds and cut and bruises, surgery. What’s Red got that we don’t?”

“Nothing. They’re less equipped if anything.”

“Exactly. Why would they send him there?”

“No idea, but poor Phil. So you and Holmes?”

“No. I’ll need some things from the closet. Is that all right?”

“Lisa restocked things so yeah. What will you do?”

“What?” She called out, heading poking out of the closet, confused.

“He won’t stay with you for long. He’s a one night stand kind of guy. It’s his motto or something.”

“We’re not … It’s not like that.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Honestly, Liam.”

“He’s a catch.”

“He’s the same as before.”

“What?”

“He looks the same as when he did in med school.”

“You went together?”

“Yes. We were friends, dummy that he is.”

“I hear he’s very intelligent.”

“He is. But sometimes, he’s not good with common sense. That’s where I come in.”

“Really? How interesting? I never pegged him as having friends. You know, he’s got that F.B.I. agent, but even that man gets angry at him.”

“Which one?”

“That Gregson fellow; he comes in every other day, with cuts and bruises. You’d have thought he went upstairs.”

“He might. No one can monitor every exit.”

“No one’s allowed out. Not since … Saturday. Yours was the last group.”

“Was Sherlock here, before I came?”

“He was, but he left Monday. We all thought he was crazy, leaving here. It was odd, but then again, he’s been always like that, hasn’t he?”

“That’s not the point. Good night Liam.”

“And a very good night to you. I’ll bet we won’t see you at breakfast again.” He says with a wink. She stuffs the small pile of supplies into her bag, sticking out her tongue.

“Shut up.”

 

 

            She falls gracelessly onto the bed, bag thrown on the floor, and she reaches to pull off her heels.

 

He walks in, preening. “Gregson agreed to go back so soon.”

“He’s got a gun. He’ll keep you safe. What you wanted, it’s in the bag over there.”

“You’re not coming?”

“You have Gregson. Don’t get him killed.”

“I was going to bring a doctor along.”

“You’re a doctor, Sher.”

“I’m going to be busy.”

“Be careful.”

“You won’t be going? Honestly?”

“I can’t.”

“Says who?” he asks, furious.

A soft knock stops Joan from answering. She waves him to open. The man who walks in is grey-haired; his eyes weary and his mouth in a frown.

“Gregson, a moment?”

“Yeah, but hurry, Holmes.”

“Joan.”

“I’m not going.”

“Are you sure, Joanie?”

“Extremely.”

“Liar.” He turns to the other man, suddenly weary. “So Gregson, did you acquire the maps?”

“No, but we do have someone working on that.”

“We need the maps, Gregson.”

“Go bicker outside, will you, Sherlock? I’m tired.”

“Fine.” He walks out, pout on his lips.

“Doctor.” Gregson nods, excusing himself.

 

* * *

 

He shakes her roughly, voice harsh with sleeplessness, “Get up. We’re leaving soon. The changing of the guard is in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“I packed your bag. We have enough supplies. Come on. Get ready.”

“I’m not—”

“Joanie, please. We need you.”

“Get out. I’m not changing in front of you.” She throws off her covers, searching for her running shoes.

“You used to do it before.” She pauses in her search, eyes searching his.

“Changing behind a bush all those times we got lost in the woods does not count. Not even once. I can’t believe you still remember that.”

“I remember everything.”

“So you say. Yet, you couldn’t remember my refusal from yesterday.”

“And yet, here you are, changing.”

“Get out.”

“I can’t. I might be seen by someone. I need to leave without being seen. I could turn around.”

“Do it. We don’t have much time.”

“I’m turning!” He grumbles, facing the wall. She smiles, and reaches for her clothes; sturdy, lightweight, and easily cleanable. She stumbles to dress quickly—jeans, socks shoes, undergarments, tank top, and grabs the rest of her clothes, intent on finishing to dress on the way out. She shoves past him, grabbing her overnight bag, opening the door, looking for the guard.

“It’s clear. Come on. Where is Gregson?”

“We’re meeting him in the Atrium. There’s an alcove—no this way, Joan. It’ll be fine.”

“Won’t it be cold out?”

“I have a coat.”

“Not on you.”

“Gregson has it. I was going for you and I can’t wear a coat, not if I want to be invisible.”

“True.” She says, crouching behind him, both of them in a nook closed off by a couple of fake potted ferns.

“Gregson.” He calls out, waiting for the clear glass doors of the atrium to open, to reveal the older man.

         He repeats the name, a bit louder. Joan reaches to cover his mouth, begging him to be quiet. He nods as the doors swishing open, and Gregson is escorted out by two men. They hold their breath, fear palpable. But Gregson makes no move toward them, though it is obvious he knows they are hiding there. The others are discussing where they should send him, if he hadn’t done much. He watches them leave, before pulling her hand away, cursing about the loss of his coat.

 

“Sherlock.”

“What now?”

“He didn’t have your coat. Maybe he left it.”

“Stay here.” He untangles himself from her, punching in a quick assortment of buttons, and that’s how he gets into her room, she thinks as he disappears into the darkness of the room.

 

“You weren’t wrong.” He mutters, angry, as he reappears not a minute later.

“Where are we going?”

“Just follow me, Joanie.”


	3. Chapter 3

 “DUCK!” She screams, her hair tangled down her face, caked with dirt, swinging the shotgun in her hands, toward his attacker. He throws himself to the ground, shooting behind her, toward the man she’d been fighting. Joan shoots, angry that the sound will attract more, angry at herself for leaving their jeep too far from the stupid store.

They’d only come to ransack for much-needed supplies. She pulls on his shirt, dragging him up, toward the jeep. They run back, two streets away, she grumbling about the loss of bullets and needing more cartridges, him laughing in joy, babbling about necessary components to think about a cure.

“Sherlock, shut up and drive or shove over.” He moves aside, forcing her to crawl over him, pinching him for good measure, and ignored him on the way back to their small haven.

 

* * *

 

She stares out the small space in the boards, watching the sun set. “So will we be going back soon?”

“Why, don’t like being topside?”

“I miss having access to showers and the pipes are frozen this time of the year. Not that we have much time for them, with you begging for trouble.”

“That last ambush wasn’t me.”

“Of course not,” she drawled.

“I’ll need a bit more, if you don’t mind. It’s only been a few days.”

“Sherlock, we need to hurry up and finish.”

“I know.”

“I meant it, Sherlock.”

“All right, Joanie. But isn’t this fun? It’s like our first weekend in the woods.”

“I blame that on you. You shouldn’t have followed us. How did you know, anyway?”

“I didn’t know, I heard; all those stupid girls crying about mud. I was out looking for some plants, that day. I told you that.”

“Yes, as you preened over and over for getting such a small amount of leaves.”

“Belladonna in those woods was rare. I’d been there for a day already. I’d even skipped my classes. I needed it—”

“For an experiment, I know. I still fail to see how that meant I had to leave the trails and the group. I don’t know why I went with you anyway.”

“You wanted to make sure I wouldn’t kill myself.”

“That’s right.” She smiles. “I remember fighting with you in the dean’s office, when we were found. We didn’t even cause uproar, when they’d noticed you were gone too. If I was with you, and vice-versa, we would be safe, he said. I was valedictorian of our class, and I didn’t even get a small search party? I slapped you.”

“Hurt for days, Joanie.”

“You’re such a child. And your sister flew over to yell at you the day after we returned. I think that was the first time I met her. Anyway, get some sleep. I’ll take the first shift.”

“You need the sleep more than I do.”

“I do not. Sherlock, please, go to bed.”

“I have to finish studying this.”

“Fine, then wake me up for the next shift.” He hums, focused on the blood sample.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock,” she yawns, the silence scaring her.

“Sherlock!” No answer.

            She rushes off the bed, adrenaline coursing through her system, her bare feet padding through the empty house. She reaches the stairs, stumbling over them, her voice low and clear, his name on her lips.

“I’m cooking.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“What? Did you think I would leave you?”

“It’s daytime.”

“Yes, very good deduction, Joanie.”

“You were supposed to wake me.”

“I’ve made a breakthrough. We need to go look for others.”

“No. You said before we got ambushed, it’d be the last time.”

“I did no such thing. I promised to never go looking for a hive.”

“Damn it, Sherlock. We aren’t going. We’re going back to the base.”

“I’ll catch up. You can pack after breakfast.” He says, handing her a plate filled with the last of the powdered eggs and a slice of toast.

“Idiot. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You can do what you want. I don’t care.”

“Then I’ll be here, and I’ll give you a sound beating if we get in too much trouble.”

 

* * *

 

            Gregson sneaked them inside, smirking at the black eye on Holmes, and the smug grin on the doctor. If stopped, he’d say he was asked to escort them to their rooms, since they’d been in the labs all week.

She stuck her hand out, as they walked down the eerily quiet halls, and stopped the two men in their tracks. “Doctor Joan Watson, I don’t believe we’ve met properly.” He grinned, shaking her offered hand.

“Special Agent Tobias Gregson. I take it you’re the one we have to congratulate for the shiner he’s sporting?”

“I warned him. He didn’t listen.”

“I don’t control swarms, woman.”

“Is he always like this, Dr. Watson?” asks Gregson with a small smile. She nods as they resume walking.

“I think so. So how much trouble did we get you in, when we left?”

“Not much, Dr. Watson. I’m used to it.”

“Because of him, I’m guessing.”

“You’d guess correctly.”

“When it comes to him, I tend to.”

“She’s like my shadow.”

“I thought I was like your mother.”

“It seems odd to think of him not being hatched.”

“I’ve met his mother, and she is very much real.”

“I’ll believe it when I see her, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t, seeing as Sherlock can leave some people with the impression of being an alien.”

“Right, well, if I may, can I join you for breakfast? I’d like to hear about topside.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Agent Gregson.”

“Tobias, if you will, doctor.”

“Joan, if you insist on Tobias.”

“And you may all call me Sherlock. I’ll see you later if I have any news.” He says, stomping off in a huff.

“He hates it when we don’t pay attention.”

“Yes, I learned that quickly enough. Good night, Joan.”

“Good night Tobias. And please check up on him, if you can. He had better not have sneaked away to some lab.”

“I’ll pass by his room before retiring.”

“Thank you.” She says with a smile on her lips.

 

* * *

 

            She woke up with him on her side again, mumbling his Latin phrases under his breath, as if asleep. She moved cautiously to the edge of the bed.

“Joanie?”

“Go back to bed. I’m only going to get breakfast. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go, please.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. I’m a normally-functioning person. I have to go eat. If you’d slept, you could have joined me.”

“Who says I won’t anyway?”

“I do. You barely slept during our outing and so you better sleep now. I’ll bring you a tray before I head over to the clinic. I’m supposed to be useful, not run away every week.”

“You’re useful to me.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re part of all of the Consulates; as if they really cared.”

“They should.”

“They don’t.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Eat here, with me.” She checks her anger, watching him, tired beyond belief.

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Sherlock, these bouts of insomnia, are they getting worse?”

“Define worse.”

“Idiot.”

“I can’t sleep often, if that’s what you mean. But I’m making a cure and that’s important.”

“I’ve seen the infected and I agree. Dying to make the cure, I don’t. I’ll bring us some trays, then.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Well, you damn idiot, you have it.”

“Just put me out of my misery.”

“How would I do that?”

“Give me a sedative.”

“I’ll bring you some soup.”

 

* * *

 

“But is he okay?” asked Tobias, helping carry the bag of Styrofoam containers back to Joan’s room.

“He says he is, but I don’t believe him.”

“Any cuts, bruises, anything?”

“No,” she sighs. “I don’t know. He won’t let me check him.”

“If he’s infected …”

“I know! Damn it, I know. It’s my fault, too.”

“It isn’t, Joan. He would have been worse off without you. We don’t even know if he’s infected.”

“Well, for not being infected, he’s well on his way to Stage Two.”

“There are stages now?”

“I asked around, to the people who could still talk.” She choked, shaking and tears streaming down her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, he was right. We couldn’t see them as people, only numbers. So I gave them numbers and … It was worse, so much worse than this shelter.”

“Where was he, when you went to talk to them?”

“He was with me. He promised to stay by my side, trying to convince me it was safer.”

“It was.”

“No, it was not. These people were scared, not stupid. They just wanted news. Not the glares of a scientist who should have been working on a cure.”

“He worries about you.”

“Not as much as I worry about him.”

“I doubt that. I guess he hasn’t told you yet.”

“Told me what?”

He stops her from opening the door. “Wait,” he said, amused. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, but it might do you some good.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was forced to enter these barracks at the very start of it all. The President is said to be hiding in one of these in Washington, you know. This one, it was the last one with vacancy. It houses all of the Consulates, who unanimously agreed to go here, away from the other well-known cities.”

“This was when the first couple of cases broke out in the States?”

“Couple of hundred cases, yeah. After that, it was a matter of protocol and being invisible. He never explained why he had to get an official pass to go outside. We both waited, those first days. Me more than him, with his yelling and pacing. You were registered for here.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t you get a letter?”

“I didn’t have time to check my mail.”

“He said that might have happened. You were crucial to the cure, he said. You had a vital piece to the puzzle. He was lying, wasn’t he?”

“I didn’t even know that much about it. I may have treated a case or two, but I was given the slimmest of details from the C.D.C. I may have treated so many without even knowing what they had. Sub-Atomic Neurotic Infliction. I heard about it, everyone was talking about it. I just … I thought it was another flu strain.”

“He said you were his shadow.”

She pauses at the sudden change of topic. “It’s more the other way.”

“I can tell. Joan, tell me, does it look like SANI?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Because, if he does, you know we can’t endanger the others.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head, serious. “Will you make the call, if it is?”

“I …It might not be.”

“If it is?”

“We won’t stay long, then.” She swipes her card, the door swishes open, and Sherlock is sitting on the bed.

“I brought you food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not hungry. What’s he doing here?”

“As if you didn’t listen by the door, Sher.” He sticks out his tongue.

“I should go, if he …”

“Please.”

“Sherlock!”

“He thinks I have SANI, and he’s asking you to kill me!”

“He’s worried. We all are.”

“I don’t see a crowd of people with pitchforks.”

“Stop being melodramatic and eat.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m going to give you the goddamn sedative, Sherlock. Eat the food.”

“No.”


	4. Sick Days

"Out of all the hospitals in the New York area, Saint Luke's is the one with the most cases of this new flu strain. We have seen the most recorded deaths here, due to the massive numbers of people admitted here. It is calling the flu outbreak in this part of the city severe. About thirty to thirty-five percent of the patients inside E.R. have flu-like symptoms. And flu season isn't expected to hit its peak until later this month." The woman states, ambulances flying by behind her, commotion loud and terrifying. The camera shifts unsteadily, the reporter shouting as they're pushed away. The focus switches to the news room immediately.  
  
"Uh ... Thank you, Elisa. We really feel for all who are under the effects of this strain. I want to bring in our medical contributor, Dr. Jeanne Branson. So Jeanne, what should people at home do if they're feeling any of the first symptoms?"  
  
"There are three important steps for people to do if someone in their house start exhibiting an, and we mean any, symptoms. First, start anti-viral medicines. But again, not for the common cold. There are posts in every hospital with doctors ready to hand over specific prescriptions to those who believe to be under the influence of the strain. This is not like the common flu, where you take a day off and eat soup. This strain, reports show, to be worse and longer lasting. Secondly, you want to make a sick room. Basically, this is like the isolation in a hospital. This person should not be eating or sleeping anywhere near others. Remember, this virus can be transmitted up to six feet away during the first few days. You really want to keep that person separate from the others, who aren't infected yet. Please do take the anti-virus pills as well. And lastly, disinfect. You want to clean all surfaces and make sure those germs aren't spreading. But please, do wear paper asks, they will protect you from the worse germs.The virus hates warmth so open up those blinds, turn up the temperature, and use humidifiers to help deactivate the virus."  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Jeanne Branson, reporting in. In other news--" She turns the television off, a faraway look in her eyes.  
  
"Joanie?" calls out the woman, listening to the sounds of cleaning up in the kitchen.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Maybe we should stay away from the clinic."  
  
"It's flu season, Martha. We're booked beyond office hours."  
  
"I still think--" Joan peers out of the kitchen, glaring at the woman sitting in her couch.  
  
"Listen, I know you're tired and it isn't any bit as glamorous as your old job, but we're making a difference here."  
  
"I know, but--"  
  
"It's just the flu, Martha! Just like every other year."  
  
"There's been loads of reports about this strain being extremely contagious and extremely fatal. And there's officials saying nothing's wrong! Isn't it a bit suspicious?"  
  
"Martha. It's not a alien virus or whatever you like to believe."  
  
"But Joanie, it's--"  
  
"Look, I admit, it sounds a little weird when you put it that way, but we should try to help the most we can.  
  
"All right."  
  
"Besides, Saturday's your day off, isn't it?"  
  
"I was asked to pick up a shift."  
  
"It's just the flu."  
  
"We hope."  
  
"The C.D.C. haven't issued statements."  
  
"They can't lie away the high death count. This is America, we're not lacking medicine or anything like that."  
  
"Martha, it's too late and I'm too tired for another discussion of why England's health system is better than ours, and how this flu is somehow a conspiracy."  
  
"Yeah, right, sorry. Good night." Smiles the other doctor, rising from the couch.  
  
"Good night. Take the anti-flu pills before you go. Precautions first, Martha."  
  
"I remember, Joan."  
  
Martha woke up sick, barricading herself in her bathroom, and asked Joan to leave supplies near the door before leaving for work.  
  
"I took the pills, Joan. I always do. You know that," she mumbled between coughs.  
  
"I don't understand why they didn't work. Maybe you got a faulty batch? I'll stop by during my lunch break and ask for two new bottles. Until then, just focus on getting better."  
  
"If you're not busy, please."  
  
"You should rest, Martha. And drink plenty of water. I went and begged some medicine from our neighbours and it should tide you over until I come back later. If you get too sick, don't hesitate to call an ambulance. There's some blankets. It'll help with the chills later. Just relax, Martha and try not to throw up too much. I'll bring soup. Hopefully, you'll be able to eat."  
  
"Hopefully, I'll be better."  
  
"It's just the flu, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
It was the last time she saw her, before she was whisked away to the underground barracks.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"Joan?" groans Sherlock, hand covering his eyes. Joan rises from her desk, trying to keep him on the bed.  
  
"I'm here, Sherlock. Are you feeling better?" He doesn't struggle, lying back down, frowning.  
  
"My head hurts, although that's to be expected, Joanie."  
  
"You needed to sleep. Besides, it gave me time to review your notes from our trip upstairs and compare them to mine."  
  
"How long have I been asleep?"  
  
"Not long."  
  
"How long, Joanie?"  
  
"37 hours, not including the time it took you to fully fall asleep."  
  
"I could have done without the sleep. I was fine."  
  
"You never sleep and when you do, it's for less than three hours. Sherlock, running yourself ragged is not going to help us find a cure. And you know that."  
  
"I do know that. I also know that this is more important than sleeping."  
  
"No, it isn't. I found something that might be useful, during your little nap. It might help slow down the progress of the disease, but I think it might need--" The loud, brass alarm sounds throughout the cement and wood rooms, the hospital white lights turning dark red, flashing.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"Attack. Come on, Joanie." He stumbles out of bed, grabbing her hand. Get ready to run, he yells, almost unheard over the shouted orders and the screeching sirens.They run out the door, all of the quarters' doors open, and people rushing out of them, in various states of disarray.  
  
"Where are we going?" she asks, trying to keep up with him.  
  
"Panic room."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Red means we're under attack. They followed us. We need to hurry up, Joan."  
  
"We're underground, they can't--"  
  
"They can and they will. Joan, hurry up."


End file.
